Chapter 8 #3
As he reached for me, the light caught his silk jacket. It was sleeker and more structured than the smoking robes he usually wore, adding definition to his lean frame. His smile gleamed, showing off a fresh set of veneers as he bent to press a kiss to my cheek.
“Hello, sweetheart,” he murmured. “Always a nice surprise to see your name on my books.”
Most people didn’t know about Maslow’s habit of keeping his show ponies in the stable, or else they didn’t care. To them, we were fixtures at the club. Day after day, night after night, until Daddy Beck opened the gates and let us out to pasture.
“I’m getting out more these days,” I replied.
His hand found my body and skimmed down until his fingers brushed the curve of my waist just above where the skirt bloused. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught the subtle shift of Mercer’s shoulders as he squared them. Charles caught it too, and his smile sharpened.
I took the opening and wriggled a step sideways, putting an inch of space between us. “Oh, Charles! This is Mister…” My brain flipped frantically through the mental copy of Mercer’s application paperwork. “James. He’s our new security officer at the Dollhouse.”
Charles chuckled, but the humor didn’t quite make it to his gray-blue eyes. “And you already have him under your spell, I see.”
Heat sparked in my cheeks. “It’s not… quite like that.”
The server hovered with the check, which Mercer gestured to before I could.
“I’ll take that.”
“Oh, Mercy, don’t…”
The server’s gaze flicked toward Charles, who lifted a quizzical brow. The message was clear: was Mercer really footing the bill or was this still my domain?
I snaked my tongue across my lips, hesitating, but the words I usually wielded so capably failed me.
Mercer pulled out his wallet and selected a generic debit card—not black, not platinum, backed by a bank account balance rather than a credit line—and passed it to the server.
The young woman took the card with a nod. “I’ll be right back with your receipt,” she said, slipping away toward the register.
Charles’s eyes lingered on Mercer for a beat then flicked to me. His expression softened.
“Perhaps you’ll make it by this way another time, hmm?” he said, then amended. “A better time.” With a courtly dip of his head, he excused himself, leaving a trace of cologne in the air.
Once he was out of range, I collapsed into my chair with a huff of relief.
I hadn’t seen the total on the check, but I knew it was a lot. I also knew that Mercer just lost his job at the Basilica and had yet to receive his first paycheck from the Dollhouse. Hopefully, Daddy Beck paid better than I thought he did.
“You didn’t need to do that.” I nodded in the direction our server had gone.
Mercer shrugged and shifted, fighting with the suit jacket binding him up.
“And why are you paying?” I continued. “I asked you out.”
He smiled again. “I’m old-fashioned, I guess.”
“Sweep me off my feet, why don’t you?” I scoffed. “But really, let me cover the tip at least. This place isn’t…”
The server returned with the check and a pen, which she laid neatly before Mercer. When he glanced at the sum at the bottom, his eyes went wide.
I flashed a sheepish smile then gestured to the dining room around us. “It’s an experience?”
Mercer recovered enough to scribble a number on the gratuity line and sign then replied, “It definitely was.”
Card and wallet tucked away, Mercer looked as composed as if he hadn’t just paid the kind of bill that could cover the lease on a small apartment.
“I had a nice time,” he said. “Thanks for inviting me.”
My head bobbed.
I’d had men spend more on me—extravagant amounts.
But for them, the money meant nothing, so neither did the gesture.
Mercer was different. I’d pegged him at a glance: average guy, average clothes, average motorcycle.
He didn’t belong in these circles or swim with these sharks, but he dogpaddled with the best of them.
On the ride back to the Dollhouse, I considered the shift in the trajectory of the night. I’d gone into dinner ready to dig up dirt on our new hire and perhaps find a reason to send him packing. Instead, I’d had fun.
My pseudo-date wasn’t much of a talker, but I could fix that.
And part of me wanted to. Less for the sake of finding some guilt to pin on him and more to learn why he said he “used to be” a Marine when I was pretty sure that shit was for life.
Also to ask which shade of green he liked best, because on the scale of neon to evergreen, there were a lot of options.
The lights of the Strip streaked by, neon blurring into a steady glow. I hugged onto Mercer’s back and let the wind pull at my hair. Too soon, the Dollhouse came into view.
Mercer eased his bike to the curb, engine purring low.
He glanced over his shoulder at me, dark eyes steady. “I’ll be back for my shift.”
I slipped off the seat, smoothed my skirt, and flicked my tail. “Don’t keep me waiting too long, soldier.”
The motorcycle’s engine roared again, but the sound didn’t drown out Mercer’s laugh. He shook his head before rolling away into the night.